


In the Footsteps of Dawn

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Deaf Castiel, Diner Owner Dean, Homeless Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slice of Life, Veteran Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-24 21:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: Dean owns a diner. Castiel is a frequent customer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Led Zeppelin's ['Going to California'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDIz4talyQk)
> 
> The rating WILL CHANGE as more pieces of the story are added. This work will very likely eventually enter into an 'E' rating.
> 
> I am and have always been a hearing individual. Any mistakes made in this depiction of a deaf character are my own and I'd be happy to edit to fix them.

Dean’s organizing receipts at the counter when Krissy plops herself down directly opposite. Dean resolutely does not look up.

Krissy, of course, ignores Dean ignoring her and leans in, conspiratorial. “So, whad'ya think his deal is, anyways?”

Dean’s eyes flick to the corner table and quickly back – entirely without his permission – and catch sight of both a piercing pair of baby blues and the spark of triumph in Krissy’s expression at getting his attention.

“He’s homeless, right?” Krissy says, moving further forward to murmur low, bracing her forearms to the counter and likely messing up Dean’s neat piles of slips in the process, god damn it Krissy. “He’s gotta be.”

Dean sighs. “Don’t you have work to do?”  

“What work?” Krissy scoffs. “Creepy homeless dude is the only person here.”

Dean shoots his waitress a warning look. “Hey. Watch it,” he says, and Krissy has the good grace to look mildly chastised.    

“He’s here for _hours,”_ Krissy then hisses, quickly rallying in the way only teenagers can. “Every day it’s ‘coffee, please,’” she mocks, low and gruff. “You know, I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing I’ve ever heard him say?”

Dean does know, because that’s the only thing Dean’s ever heard him say, too. The man with the heavy gaze and tousled hair and beautiful mouth; who comes in every day at 11 and stays until half-past whenever, seemingly content to sit and people-watch and sedately sip his coffee (and maybe a water, if you put one in front of him, and Dean sometimes wonders if he’ll eat a waffle or a burger or maybe some pie if he were to put that in front of him, too.) The guy who smiles and nods in a vague, absent sort of way if you try to talk to him past “What can I get you?” and always pays in exact change with a 20% tip and yeah, is probably homeless.

“He stares,” Krissy stresses. “A _lot.”_

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, and physically lifts the girl’s arms up off his receipts, ignoring Krissy’s splutters of indignation to place her off to the side and out of his space. “Quit your yappin’ and go count the register. Why am I paying you, again?”

Krissy rolls her eyes, also as only a teenager can. “I _just_ counted—”

“Get goin’!” Dean barks.

Krissy blows a sigh that could give even Sam a run for his money. _“Fine,”_ she says, and goes.

Dean allows himself a self-satisfied smirk. Damn, but it’s good to be King. He turns back to his own task and, helpless not to, chances another glance over to the corner.

The man is still looking. He catches Dean’s eye and smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s weeks after the man first started coming in that he takes up a napkin to write,  _‘What is your name?’_

Dean has a moment of confusion, because he’d said, hadn’t he? And with a dawning horror Dean realizes, yeah, he _had_ said, over a handshake and a smile the first day the man sat at the counter instead of the corner table he’d previously favored. This was, incidentally, also the day Dean learned of the man’s deafness.

Of course he doesn’t know Dean’s name – he didn’t _hear,_ Dean, you idiot – and his earlier assumption that the man simply preferred to live in anonymity goes straight out the window in light of the embarrassing lack of any proper round of introductions.

 _‘My name is Dean,’_ he signs, slow over the letters because the man doesn’t know much, but Dean’s gathered he’s at least got his ABCs.

He watches Dean’s hands closely, then picks up the pen. _‘Dean.’_

Dean nods.

“Dean,” the man says, careful and low; vowel slurred slightly into the ‘n’ and the sweetest fucking thing Dean’s heard all year. He lifts his hands, signs, _‘My name is,’_ in an obvious mimicry of what he just saw Dean do, hesitant and unsure enough to retreat back to pen and paper.

_‘Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel.’_


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a day when he comes in, Mr. Corner Booth Coffee, and with determination – if not a little apprehension – comes to the front instead.

Dean surreptitiously watches from the register as the man carefully tucks his bulging canvas duffle at his feet and slides into the barstool. The diner isn’t particularly crowded this morning, the man’s usual spot wide open, and Dean wonders what prompted the change as he hurriedly rings out the register before turning to pour a fresh cup of hot coffee.

Dean carefully carries the mug the few feet over to where the man sits, hyper-aware of the weight of the blue-eyed stare that follows his every move.

“Coffee?” Dean asks, lamely holding up the cup in demonstration. The man nods with a small, secret smile that Dean sees more of in the corners of his eyes than the corners of his mouth.

Dean realizes he’s staring and hurriedly places the coffee on the counter with a stammered, “Yeah, uh, cool. Uhm…enjoy, dude,” and Dean’s head whips up as he feels the man lightly touch the back of his hand, suspended over the lightly steaming mug and frozen as sure as if the man were Midas himself.

“And pancakes,” he says, voice rough and warm as an asphalt road under the summer sun.

Dean grins, wide and quick. “Pancakes?” he asks, and the man nods. Dean nods, too. “Sure, no problem,” he says and, turning his head towards the kitchen, hollers, “Need some pancakes!”

He waits for Benny’s answering, “Comin’ raigh’ up, brother,” before facing back, eyebrows up: _Look, see? Pancakes._

The man says nothing, just looks at Dean with pleased, somewhat puzzled eyes.

Dean breaks first, can _feel_ the blush creeping up his cheeks. “I’m just gonna…” Dean chucks a thumb at the coffee maker. The guy doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he says, and flees.

 

* * *

 

He’s back, five minutes and one round of coffee refills later, to plop a piled-high plate of pancakes in front of his mystery man.

“Here we go,” Dean says. “Hope you like ‘em.”

“Thank you,” the man replies, way too earnest for a $2 short stack and Dean feels something pull, low and tight in his throat.

“It’s…fine,” Dean says awkwardly. “Hi, by the way.” He reaches a hand across the counter. “I’m Dean.”

The man hesitates slightly before taking Dean’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Thank you,” he repeats.

Dean’s smile falters at the odd response, and he's immediately made to regret it as the man’s own expression falls; eyes cast down and to the side as he quickly withdraws from Dean’s grip. Dean hovers as the man nervously fumbles for his napkin and silverware, desperately wanting to salvage the situation but unsure how.

The man’s head is down, a clear enough sign for Dean to leave the poor guy alone, but the proprietor in Dean prompts him to ask, “Hey, do you want some syrup?”

Not so much as a _twitch_.

Dean huffs a nearly imperceptible sigh. Message received, loud and clear. Dean reaches under the counter for a bottle of syrup, just in case.

The man’s head jerks up at the movement, sudden and unexpected enough to make Dean jump.

Oh. _Oh,_ holy shit.

“Are you deaf?” Dean blurts stupidly, then quickly brings up his hands to sign, _‘Can you hear?’_

The man’s eyes go wide in shock.

Oh, wow. That makes…a lot of sense, actually. _‘That’s okay,’_ Dean hastens to add. _‘We can sign. I know how.’_

The man abruptly stands, and Dean’s initial excitement fades as he realizes the guy isn’t just surprised Dean knows ASL, he’s _spooked._

“Wait,” Dean says, signs it too, but the man’s not looking. He digs out a handful of bills and coins from his pocket and slaps the lot of it to the counter. He ducks to retrieve his duffel and either doesn’t see or ignores Dean’s waving to get his attention.

“I have to go,” the man says, vowels falling flat in his rush to get out the words, and Dean is stunned to hear the evidence of what he suspected. “I’m sorry.”

He’s out the door in seconds and Dean’s left, confused and hurt, standing over a still-warm plate of untouched pancakes.


	4. Chapter 4

They’re sitting at what Dean’s come to think of as _Cas’s_ corner table, playing an idle few rounds of tic-tac-toe during the mid-afternoon lull, when Dean’s confusion and endless curiosity finally get the best of him. He tugs out a blank sheet of paper from the half-empty leaf he’d liberated from the back office with one hand while blocking Cas with a carefully placed ‘x’ with the other. He ignores Cas’s disgruntled frown and countermove to write, _‘Why haven’t you learned to sign?’_

Dean cautiously slides over the paper. Cas stills, and for a long, breathless moment Dean is sure he’s overstepped; that Cas is going to run out the door, and this time not come back.

Instead, much to Dean’s relief, Cas unfreezes on a long, slow exhale, brings up his pen to write, _‘My hearing was lost in The Smiting.’_

Dean physically jerks in surprise. Chest tight, he leans in to write on the paper still trapped under Cas’s hand, a hurried scrawl, _‘You’re a veteran?’_

 _The Smiting._ The event widely considered to be the most devastating U.S. terrorist attack in recent history; the utter decimation of a U.S./Iraqi joint air base which took place six – eight? – months ago; fire bombs and air missiles in such staggering quantities that no government knew (or would admit to knowing) how the radical terrorist party could’ve possibly secured access to them all. ‘The Smiting’ being the macabre tagline that later came to define the event; coined by the media and a derivative of the language used in the awful, horrific liveleak from the terrorist group themselves – _we are righteous, we are just, we will smite the evil from our lands._

Cas nods, head bowed and eyes to the table. “I was…lucky,” he says softly.

Dean’s eyes catch on Cas’s hand, white-knuckled on the pen he holds, and Dean doesn’t really know what to say, here. He only knows what he’s heard from the news – knows that over a hundred American military and civilian lives were lost in the attack, and that the survivors were very much in the minority – but he honestly hadn’t given it much thought past the initial shock; the acute sympathy for lives lost, the _that’s a damn shame_ sentiment that soon became a removed, distant, _lazy_ sorrow; the luxury of ignorance afforded to those who live the civilian life, Marine father or no. Dean reaches over and writes, _‘The VA?’_

Cas's features flinch, just the barest bit. “I was…” he says, carefully setting his pen to the table, “lost.” Cas splays his hands flat against the formica. “I didn’t want to be there,” he continues and, defiant, finally lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s own. “I didn’t want to learn.”

Dean keeps Cas’s gaze, not sure what he's looking for but must find, regardless, because he then asks, _‘Can I show you how?’_

Cas stares at the words on the page, some unidentifiable emotion tugging at his mouth as he fists his hand, raises it and signs, _‘Yes.’_


	5. Chapter 5

“So…that’s it,” Sam says, lips pursed and practically radiating incredulity as he snags a quick sip of his beer. “You’re just gonna…teach the guy to sign. Just like that.”

“Dude, shut up,” Dean grumbles into the mouth of his own longneck. Eileen sends him an exasperated look from her armchair sat adjacent to Sam and Dean on the couch. Expert lip reader or no, not even Eileen can make sense of Dean’s mumblings when he falls into his deep-rooted habit of covering his mouth when he’s stressed or embarrassed. Dean’s been working on it.

Sam twists in his seat to face Dean, all curious eyes and poorly-concealed smirk, “Yeah, Dean,” he says, signing as he speaks. “What was that?”

Eileen hides a smile and Dean pulls a face at his bitch little brother. “I _said,_ ” he stresses, setting aside his beer to better sign as well. “Why shouldn’t I? He obviously needs to learn.”

“Well, yeah…” Sam says, tone swinging from teasing back to concern. “But that’s a really big time commitment. Not to mention you’re not exactly…qualified, you know? Shouldn’t he sign up for an actual class?”

“S’not so hard,” Dean says, like he hasn’t already ordered four separate ASL teaching and learning manuals since his conversation with Cas at the diner. “I learned, didn’t I?”

Dean darts a shy look to Eileen, remembering the months of patient indulgence for his alternative methods of communication and creative interpretations from an (at the time) ASL-novice Sam before Dean finally decided to buckle down and learn the language himself. He’d learned quickly, with what his CAD instructor called “a natural flair” and Dean called shear dogged determination. Worth the effort and more, Dean thinks, to have been able to stand at his brother’s shoulder and play ceremony interpreter for Sam and Eileen’s wedding, two years before.

 _‘Is he cute?’_ Eileen signs, and Dean promptly chokes on his drink. Sam barks a laugh and Eileen smirks, wordlessly tipping her beer in her husband’s direction. Sam closes the distance with one absurdly long limb to clink their bottles together in cheers, Dean glaring murder all the while.

“That doesn’t— It’s not— No!” Dean blatantly lies, and for sanity’s sake ignores the significant look and unsubtle _oh yeah_ ‘ok’ hand sign Sam sends Eileen’s way. Dean flops dramatically into the back of the couch with a groan, talking to the ceiling but signing as he says, “He doesn’t want a class. But he’s a friend who needs to learn and is okay with me showing him the ropes, so…” Dean looks up and shrugs. “He’s been through a lot, you know? I’ve gotta at least try.”  

Sam’s face has softened into something soppy and ridiculous and which, to Dean, means they’re in desperate need of a change in topics. He levers himself off the sofa, abandoning his empty on the coffee table and avoiding Eileen’s look of fond approval to ask, “Anyone need another?”


	6. Chapter 6

It’s more than a week after the man runs out before he returns.

It’s Benny’s off day, meaning Dean runs the grill, and Dean doesn’t even know the guy’s decided to come back until he gets a break in orders on the tail end of the lunch rush. Dean comes out from the kitchen to check on Krissy and Max manning the front and immediately spots him, sat in his usual corner and focus seemingly 100% on his steaming coffee mug.

Dean immediately swivels back, catching the door before it even has the chance to close behind him, and beats a hasty retreat.

 

* * *

 

Dean is slow in his approach, but even so is practically at the man’s elbow before he notices Dean in his periphery, startled eyes torn from the formica to lock squarely with Dean’s.

Dean unceremoniously slides a plate onto the table, jerky with nerves, and the man’s gaze falls heavy to the stack of warm pancakes set before him.  

Dean’s pushing and knows it, knows this is the kind of shit that prompted the man to run in the first place and Dean is very, very sure this is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, but fuck if he’s managed to think of anything better in the eight days since.

(Which he didn’t _count_ , okay, it’s not Dean’s fault he’s got a head for numbers.)

Dean waves a little to grab the man’s attention, eyes hesitantly dragging back to Dean. “It’s on the house,” he says and signs, dearly hoping he’s not overstepping as much as he fears. “Since, y’know…” Dean trails away, scratching nervously at the nape of his neck as he casts a glance back to the front counter, concludes lamely, “you didn’t get to finish, before.”

The man is silent for a long moment, his stare searching, and just as Dean starts to squirm under the scrutiny the man points to the plate and asks, “For me?”

Dean nods, head bouncing a tad too enthusiastically but hell, it’s not a _fuck off,_ not yet.

A smile breaks across the man’s face, wide and pleased. “Thank you,” he says, fingering at the napkin-wrapped roll of his fork and knife, but not yet breaking into his meal. “And…I’m sorry,” he continues, clearly struggling to find the words but eyes on Dean all the while.

“I like it here,” he says, halting and low and painfully sincere. “You learning of my disability…surprised me, though I should not have left like I did. I also…don’t know sign language.” He drops his gaze at the open surprise that must show on Dean’s face, repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Dean experiences a momentary panic at the man’s obvious withdrawal, and begins pawing at the pockets of his jeans and apron so frantically he manages to draw back the man’s attention but, god damn it, of course he doesn’t have a pen or notepad on him, Dean hasn’t carried one in years. He hits gold, though, when his searching fingers light upon a receipt slip. He pulls it from his apron and mimes to the man that he needs a pen.

The man’s eyes light in understanding, and he bends to open a pocket of the battered duffel at his feet. In short order he straightens, a simple Bic in hand and Dean takes it when offered, bending slightly at the waist to smooth the crumpled receipt flat to the table. 

 _‘That’s okay,’_ Dean writes, shoots a shy glance up. _‘Would you like some syrup?’_


	7. Chapter 7

Dean owns the diner because he’d learned, long ago, that family don’t end in blood.

They’d first rolled into Morgan Hill one hazy September afternoon, because apparently Dad had ‘a friend’; an old buddy from the Corps who either genuinely needed an extra pair of hands managing his mini-storage business or, more likely, offered the job out of some misplaced sense of brotherhood and post-war sentimentality. The city was a bit bigger than their usual, though certainly not by much, and Sam was inexplicably excited by the prospect of living out a stint in Cali, no matter that they were nowhere near the ocean. Ask Dean, it all looked like more of the same.  

Dad had taken the initiative to set them all up in a month-by-month lease apartment but left Dean to sort out schools, a song and dance Dean was familiar enough with ( _“Military, ma’am, moved around, you know how it is—”_ and _“Settling down now, though, and he’s just real busy with the new job, y’know, I really didn’t wanna—”_ and _“No ma’am, she died when I was real little, ma’am—”_ ) to minimize any raised eyebrows.

In the end, Dean comes into his junior year of high school three weeks late and with a chip on his shoulder, stuck in another no-name school in another no-name town where nobody knows him from Adam.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean starts, eyes tearing from the blank surface of his crappy desk to meet the stern gaze of the teacher stood at the front of the class. Dean’s fingers still, pen a stiff press into the top of his thigh and the previous muted, steady beat of Metalica’s “Orion” cutting to an abrupt halt. “Yes ma’am?”

“Would you care to answer the question?”

The pen digs in deeper on his thigh, a low ache. Dean plasters on his best smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Tavel,” fuck, fuck, or was it Trahan? “I didn’t catch the question.”

Probably-Tavel continues to look singularly unimpressed. “I asked, Mr. Winchester, if one might be able to draw any conclusions about old man Santiago’s current mental state from his reaction to losing his harpoon during his struggles with the sharks. From last night’s reading?”

Dean’s smile falters. Last night, Dad never came home with the food money he’d promised from Monday’s paycheck and, after a few hours’ useless waiting, Dean’d made the 50-minute walk to and from the Safeway off Dunne, easier and far less risky to lift from than the corner market. A few muffled snickers rise from varying points of the classroom as the silence stretches.

Fucking Hemingway.

Probably-Tavel peers out disapprovingly over the rims of her specs. Dean wonders if she’s intentionally working her way through some sort of checklist to hit that peak school marm stereotype, or if he’s really just that lucky. “You’ve had ample time to catch up with the rest of the class, Mr. Winchester,” she scolds. “I suggest you make the effort to actually join us.”

And with that, she gives a single sharp nod, seemingly satisfied to have put yet another unruly waste of space rightly in his place. Another round of titters ripples through the room; giggles and whispers and unsubtle side-eyes, blood in the water. Dean sinks deeper in his seat, the hard edge of the chairback scraping roughly up his spine.

 

* * *

 

Dean never makes it to fourth period.

He hits up his locker between English and U.S. Government, trading his untouched notebook for the brick of a History text that’s typically more trouble than it’s worth. Dean tugs out a half-completed worksheet from between its pages, due at the door.

Five minutes later finds him out and three blocks away, no direction in mind other than _anywhere but here._

He makes it another two before he slows, stops, pauses to breathe. Four hours until the middle school lets out and Dean can even consider meeting Sammy for their walk back to the apartment, no matter that the high school technically runs a half hour longer than even that. Dean turns back to face the way he came, a familiar voice – _get the fuck over yourself, man up, get the job done_ – warring with the sick, physical dread that rises with even the thought of having to endure a single minute more.

Dean casts a look around and realizes he’s walked in exactly the opposite direction of anywhere he knows to be, nowhere near the park on Hale or the 7-Eleven off Main or the pizza place exactly halfway between the school and the apartment, the one with the $1.00 slices and a Ms. Pac-Man tucked tight in the corner. There’s no reason to wander too far, nowhere to be, and Dean spots a diner, across the road and a street down. On an impulse he makes for the squat square of a building, wide windows and corrugated roof, the same unassuming silhouette of a hundred, two hundred all-too-similar highway stops that have come before.

Dean enters the diner with casual confidence, head up and eyes alert for anyone who would throw him a second glance. Some asshole busybody on their lunch break calling him in for truancy is the last thing he needs.

Dean takes in the space; wood-paneled walls, blue vinyl booths and dark, speckled tile floors. The place ain’t busy, but it’s not exactly deserted, either, only a couple of the booths currently occupied but the high tops at the counter more full than not. Dean hangs a right and tucks into the first seat on hand, back to the majority of the room and the booth closest to the door. Dean fixes his eyes to the ass-ugly tan formica of his table and tries very hard not to think.

“Hey kid,” says a voice, and Dean looks up to see a man; pen, order pad, grease-stained apron and the most impressive handlebar mustache Dean’s ever seen. The ‘stache twitches as the man narrows his eyes in open suspicion. “You got school?”

Dean offers a guileless grin. “Half day.”

“Mm-hm,” the man hums, slow, then blows a short sigh. “What can I get for you?”

Dean continues to beam up at the man, grateful for the mutual understanding. “Just a coffee, thanks.”

The ‘stache again gives a twitch. “Nothing else?”

Dean’s got a buck in change and jack squat else, his allowance to himself for his school-day typical vending machine lunch. “Not right now.”

“If you say so.” The man tucks away the pen and notepad into the recesses of his apron, says, “The name’s Sonny. Holler if you change your mind.”

 

* * *

 

Fuck Hemingway, but Dean’s dime copy of _1984_ keeps him well-enough occupied until around the two-hour mark. Dean’s more than used to skipping lunch, he is, but turns out he did a piss poor job of factoring in that literal hours of being surrounded by food at the midday might just come back and bite him in the ass.

Whoever’s sat in the booth adjoined to Dean’s ordered bacon and eggs, pancakes and a side of hash. He knows because he saw it delivered, two plates to hold it all. He knows because he can _smell_ it, the buttery sweetness of the pancakes and the enticing salt-and-fat scent of perfectly crisped bacon. Dean chokes down a sip of his third coffee, and his stomach roils.

The cup clunks back to the formica and Dean casts around a look, seeking distraction. He starts somewhat to see the guy who seems to be running the place – Sonny, he said – staring, locking eyes with Dean from behind the front counter. Dean slumps further into the booth and goes to grab his book, abandoned on the table, but pauses when Sonny jerks his head to call back his attention, a wordless request for Dean to join him up front. He stares, unsure, and Sonny waves a hand: cleaning cloth a damp, limp flap in his hold and unmistakably beckoning Dean closer.

Dean drags over the little paperback to thump lightly down in his lap, hands shaky from an overabundance of caffeine clumsily tucking it into his jacket pocket. He slides out from the booth and approaches the counter, change for the coffee ready to go for when the guy lets Dean know he’s overstayed his welcome.

Sonny eyes Dean speculatively; a brief, cursory appraisal of unknown intent. “You hungry, kid?”

Dean’s hands pull deeper down in his jacket pockets, forearms a protective, relieving pressure bracketing his grumbling gut. “No, sir,” he mumbles, bracing for the _‘Then leave,’_ that’s sure to follow.

Sonny draws up, standing straight and arms crossed loosely at his chest, something settling behind the dark light of his eyes, like a resolution. “Well, it’s up to you, but,” he ticks his head towards the back, to the polished silver swinging door leading to the kitchen, “I’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes and a burger with your name on it if they come out clean.” He shrugs, indifferent. “If you want to.”

That catches Dean so off guard it takes him a second to work through it, surprise and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sonny echos. He keeps a straight face, but the start of a smile in his eyes gives him away. “Come on,” he beckons, leading Dean to the far side of the counter, opening up to the back. Dean cautiously follows. “Believe me, you’d be doing me a favor.” Sonny elbows open the door to reveal the kitchen space, a wide flat-top grill set over a pair of ovens on the left and a deep double sink at the far wall, a large steel island set right at the room’s center. Small, but comfortable enough. There’s a second man, someone Dean hasn’t seen, stood at the grill and frying up what looks like the makings of a philly cheesesteak. “Clean up for food? That’s labor so cheap it’s probably against the rules.” Their entrance earns them a look from grill dude and not much else, turning right back to cooking following a perfunctory glance. “That’s Jack,” says Sonny lightly, then, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Uh,” Dean stumbles, still trying to get a look around as they draw up to the big sink, one side stacked half-high with scraped-clean dishes and dirty cutlery. “Dean.”

“Okay, Dean,” Sonny says, and goes on to walk him through the process. Where to find the soap and scrubbing brushes; the drain stopper and the waist apron for soaking up splashes and the flexible, removable spray nozzle for rinsing; what’s fine to leave on the rack versus what should be dried by hand. Dean listens, his inner _what the fuck_ slowly fading under the comfort of actionable instruction.

Sonny leaves, back to the front, and Dean dives right in. It can’t be more than thirty minutes later that he sets down the last of the clean plates, satisfied with a job well done despite the grossness of sweat from the heat of the grill, the soapy wetness that’s soaked straight up to the cuffs of his t-shirt, his jacket stripped and tied securely under the apron at his waist.

The burger, when it comes, is _really_ fucking good. Either Jack’s a god or a meal rightfully earned tastes that much sweeter, and Dean somehow doubts it’s the former. Dean sits up at the counter to eat, tentatively trading small talk with Sonny between bites. He clams up a bit when, a few minutes in, Sonny’s expression starts to turn a shade too understanding for comfort, and Dean instead retreats into his french fries, makes a conscious effort to slow down.

He doesn’t say no, though, when Sonny offers dessert in the form of pie – given he takes out the trash after, of course.

Since Dean’s got nothing better to do – or that’s what he tells Sonny, anyways – he spends the next hour wiping down counters and bussing tables, and before he knows it the clock reads ten past and, Dean realizes, time to go.

Sonny watches thoughtfully from across the counter as Dean fiddles lightly with the ties of his borrowed apron, slowly and gently tugging it free from around his waist. He folds it neatly – crisp, careful creases – before ultimately extending it to Sonny, his to take.

“Tell me something,” Sonny says, making no move to retrieve the apron. “What time does school let out?” His mustache tilts and flattens over the beginnings of a knowing smirk. “Not on a half day.”

Dean dares to feel a spark of hope, deep in his chest. “Three thirty,” he says, then breaks out in a grin, wholly unrepentant. “Usually.”

“Mm-hm,” Sonny deadpans, then, “Four to eight sounds like a decent enough shift. How’s $6 an hour?”

Dean smiles so hard it’s a wonder something doesn’t strain. “When do I start?”


End file.
